GOD'S  OUTCAST 

»    r  ALL    CLEAR   "  r 
GOD   OF  MY  FAITH 

*  'THREE  PLAYS  BY  " 
J.HARTLEY  MANNERS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT   LOS  ANGELES 


DRAMATIC  WORKS  OF  1.  HARTLEY  MANNERS 


THREE  PLAYS 


ALL  CLEAR 
GOD  OF  MY  FAITH 

AND 

GOD'S  OUTCAST 


BY  J.  HARTLEY  MANNERS 
Peg  0'  My  Heart 

A  Novel  on  the  Comedy 

Happiness 

and  Two  Other  Plays 

Wreckage 

An  Arrangement  in 
Three  Acts 

Out  There 

A  Dramatic  Composition 


THREE  PLAYS 


ALL   CLEAR 
GOD  OF  MY  FAITH 

AND 

GOD'S   OUTCAST 

BY 

J.  HARTLEY  MANNERS 


new  xayr  york 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

■  ■■:"/'■/.:     ::••  ■ 

*       JiJJ    **■-'*  • » ■       »  i  *  *       * j 

-..ft'"  :':.:..:"... ";:  : 

•       *  >  i  ■ 


COPYRIGHT,  1930, 
BY  J.  HARTLEY  MANNERS 

A.LL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THOSE 
OF  TRANSLATION 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


::r\  •< 


4314- 
Mlbt 

FOREWORD 

Written  during  the  horrors  of  the  unjust  and  cruel 
war  forced  by  Germany  upon  civilisation,  these  plays, 
founded  on   actual   incidents,   may   serve   to  keep   alive 
remembrance  of  some  of  the  barbarous   outrages   per- 
petrated by  the  Hun  on  innocent  and  wretched  peoples. 
The  attitude  of  many  who  took  no  active  part  in  the 
recent  strife  is  to  urge  people  to  forget  as  quickly  as 
possible  that  such  cowardly  brutalities  were  ever  com- 
mitted and  to  insist,  now  that  peace  has  come  through 
>h     the  defeat-at-arms   of   the   Prussian   hordes,   that  bUSi- 
<     ness    and    social    relations    be    resumed   with    Germany 
pd     as  in  pre-war  davs.     I  contend  that  no  civilised  human 
«_3     being  who   is  a   free  agent  will   do  either.     Whenever 
we   are  asked   to   speak  to  or  trade  with  Germans  let 
us  glimpse  back  but  a  few  years  and  recall  the  atroci- 
7     ties  in  Belgium  and  Northern   France  from  which  the 
populations   of  those   devastated   lands   will   suffer   for 
generations.      German    soil   is    untouched.      She   is    pre- 
paring to  flood  the  world  with  her  agents  in  order  to 
2   restore  the  prestige  she  lost  by  her  wanton,  dastardly 
,*    and  atrocious  acts.     She  will  again  attempt  to  under- 
mine   the    business    of    civilised    countries,    betray    the 
hospitality   of   their  citizens   and   spread    foul   German 
propaganda    in    every    decent    community.      It    is    for 

[v] 


- 


'.'J 


FOREWORD 

civilised  peoples  to  take  their  stand  now  against  such 
an    invasion.      And    they    will    if    they    remember    the 
old,  the  crippled,  the  women  and  little  children  done  to 
death,    from    the    air,    in    poverty-stricken    districts;    if 
they  revive  in  their  minds  the  murders  at  sea  of  poor 
fishermen    and    the    sailors    and    passengers    on    unde- 
fended  ships ;   if  they   keep   ever-present  the   loathing 
they   felt   when   their   gallant  sons,   brothers    and   hus- 
bands   who    went    to    France    in    the    sacred    cause    of 
Liberty  were  poisoned  as  vermin  by  the  cowardly  and 
malignant  Prussian.     War  had  at  one  time  a  majesty. 
As    conducted    by    the    Prussian    hordes,    led   by    their 
infamous  officers,  it  descended  to  actions  more  unspeak- 
able than   history   records  of  the  savage  or  the  beast. 
Let  civilisation  grasp  the  all-too-evident  fact  that  they 
are  a  race  apart,  unfit  to  associate  with,  and  the  great 
lesson   of  the  terrible  holocaust  will  have  been  learnt 
and  some  definite  good  come  out  of  the  years  of  travail. 
Already  German  propaganda  is  spreading  throughout 
the    United    States.      It   is    primarily    directed    against 
America's     strongest     ally — Great     Britain.      Individu- 
als  and  newspapers   of   pro-German   sympathies    daily 
attack  at  street  corners,  in  meetings,  and  in  print  the 
country    through    whose    intervention    civilisation    was 
saved,  the  waterways  of  the  world  held  open,  the  Ger- 
man fleet  rendered  powerless,  so  that  troops  came  from 
every  corner  of  the  world  in  order  that  barbarity  could 
be  crushed.     When  men  attack  Great  Britain  from  the 
platform  or  in  print  they  become  self-accused  German- 
sympathisers,  and  as  such  are  a  danger  in  civilised  com- 

[vi] 


FOREWORD 

munities.  It  is  the  duty  of  every  citizen  who  loves 
liberty  and  fair-play  to  counteract  by  every  means  in 
his  or  her  power  the  dangerous,  insidious  teachings  of 
such  German-sympathisers,  masquerading  under  many 
guises,  against  the  country  that  has  given  to  the  United 
States  the  groundwork  of  her  just  laws  and  the  inspira- 
tion of  her  glorious  Freedom. 

J.   Hartley  Manners. 
December,    1919- 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

All   Clear 13 

God  of   My  Faith 49 

AND 

God's  Outcast 75 


[ix] 


Written  August,  1918 


ALL  CLEAR 

A  Protest 


"He'll  watch  over  the  weakest 
Until  the  'All  Clear/" 

[From  a  hymn  written  by  a  child,  aged  7  years,  as 
a  prayer  to  God  for  protection  during  the  Hun  air 
raids  over  the  poverty-stricken  sections  of  London. 
Poor  women  and  little  children  were  the  chief  sufferers 
from  this  form  of  German  barbarity.] 


[Hi 


THE    PERSONS    IN   THE    PROTEST. 

Matthew  Blount,  D.D. 

"Varnish" 

"Leggy" 

Norah 

The  incident,  true  in  substance,  veracious  in  detail, 
occurs  in  an  unhappy  section  of  London  where  the 
struggle  for  life  is  keenest,  the  opportunities  for  joy 
remote.  Into  these  wretched  districts  the  incomparable 
( !)  German  warriors  brought  desolation  and  violent 
death.     Of  such  brutes  is  the  kingdom  of  the  Hun. 


[12] 


ALL  CLEAR 

Notes.— "TAKE  COVER"  in  six-inch  letters. 
The  "WARNING"  is  the  explosion  of  a  bomb. 
The  "ALL  CLEAR"  signal  is  a  bugle  call  by  boy 

scouts  —  "Da,  da  !". 

The  incident  takes  place  in  a  little  room  in  a  tenement 
house.  It  is  about  half-past-eight  at  night  in  the 
early  winter.  A  moaning  wind  rises  and  falls, 
whistles  and  screams  without.  It  does  not  disturb  the 
play  of  a  sturdy  little  boy  of  ten  and  a  thin,  pale, 
active  little  girl  of  nine.  Both  are  of  the  very  poor. 
Their  clothes  have  been  repeatedly  mended.  Their 
boots  are  broken.  But  their  spirits  are  high  and  their 
voices  shrill  as  they  bend  their  best  energies  to  the 
task  in  hand. 

In  the  fireplace  a  dim  fire  is  feebly  smouldering.  On 
the  hob  is  a  kettle.  Hard  by  a  battered,  grimy  dresser 
holds  the  few  utensils  necessary  for  the  meagre  wants 
of  the  occupants.  A  rough  table  with  a  faded,  cheap 
cloth  is  set  for  supper.  It  consists  of  half  a  loaf 
of  bread  and  some  margarine.  A  cup  and  saucer 
stand  ready  for  the  war-time  stimulant  of  the  very 
poor  —  tea. 

The  room  is  below  the  street  level.  A  small,  square  win- 
dow looks  out  into  the  area.  The  blind  is  drawn. 
The  street  door  opens  direct  from  the  area  into  the 

[13]     ' 


ALL    CLEAR 

room.  Some  six  steps  separate  the  room  from  the 
street. 

A  flickering  oil  lamp  burns  unsteadily  on  the  centre  of 
the  table.  Two  beds  are  in  the  far  corner.  One  is 
very  small. 

The  game  on  which  the  children  are  intent  is  known  as 
"Zepps"  and  graphically,  through  the  medium  of  a 
child's  observation,  portrays  the  outstanding  features 
of  the  early  Zeppelin  raids  on  the  city  of  London. 

The  little  boy  has  smeared  on  a  large  piece  of  soiled 
paper  with  the  black  heads  of  used  matches  the  words 
"Take  Cover,"  and  has  pinned  it  on  the  front  of  his 
ragged  jacket.  He  is  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
very  erect,  shoidders  well  back,  and  head  high. 

BOY 

Are  ye  ready? 

GIRL 

Where  will  I  be? 

BOY 

Walk  across  as  if  ye  mjos  in  the  street. 

GIRL 

All  right !  [Runs  across  to  the  corner  where  the 
beds  are.] 

BOY 

Go!  An'  not  too  fast!  [Girl  walks  daintily  across, 
picking  her  steps.  Boy,  tapping  his  chest  with  the  "No- 
tice"   on    it    and    assuming   as    deep    and    commanding 

[14] 


ALL    CLEAR 

a  voice  as  he  can  muster.]  Take  Cover!  Take  Cover! 
Down  to  the  cellar!  Indoors  everyone!  Quick  as  you 
can!  Take  Cover!  Take  Cover!  [He  moves  slowly 
down  the  steps.  The  little  girl  gives  a  cry  and  runs 
back  near  the  fireplace,  moaning,  and  pressing  her 
fingers  to  her  ears  as  though  to  shut  out  the  sound  of 
guns.  The  boy  rushes  to  the  fireplace,  tears  off  the 
paper,  takes  up  the  fire-irons,  clambers  up  on  to  the 
table,  and  cries.]  Boom!  Boom!  Splatter!  Boom! 
Boom!  Boom!  Crash!  [Throws  the  fire-irons  on  the 
floor.] 

GIRL 

[Faintly.]     Oh! 

BOY 

Louder ! 

GIRL 

Oh! 

BOV 

Much  louder  !     Ye've  been  hit ! 

GIRL 

[Loudly.]     Oh ! 

BOY 

Fall  down!      [The  little  girl  falls.]     Go  on!     "My 
head  !     My  head  !" 

GIRL 

My  head  ?     My  head  ! 

BOY 

Goon!     [Excitedly.]     Die!     Ah-h-h ' 

[15] 


ALL    CLEAR 

GIRL 

Ah-h-h!  [She  closes  her  eyes  and  falls  gingerly 
back.] 

BOY 

[Jumps  down  and  snatches  up  the  "Notice,"  pins  it 
on  again,  runs  up  the  steps,  and  in  a  deep  voice  calls.] 
"All  Clear!"  [Girl  sits  up.]  Lie  down  !  Ye're  dead  ! 
[Girl  falls  back.]  "All  Clear!"  [Moves  down  the 
step*.]  Ah!  One  struck  here!  Bad  business! 
[Marches  across  and  looks  down  at  little  girl.]  Dear, 
dear,  dear !  Her  head  blown  off !  Very  bad  business  ! 
Poor  thing!  Gi'e  me  a  'and,  Alf !  We'll  taike  'er  to 
the  mortch'ry!  [Bends  down  to  pick  her  up.]  'Eavy, 
ain't  she? 
[A   loud  knock   sounds  at  the  street    door.     The    girl 

springs  up  frightenedly.] 

BOY 

[In  a  whisper.]     Wait  a  minit!      [He  picks  up  the 
fire-irons  and  puts  them  back  in  the  fireplace,  takes  off 
the  "Notice"  and  crushes  it  into  a  ball  which  he  thrusts 
into  his  trousers  pocket.] 
[Knock  at  door  is  heard  again.] 

BOV 

[Whispers.]  All  right!  [The  little  girl  runs  up  the 
steps  and  opens  the  door.  A  grave,  middle-aged,  weary- 
looking  man  in  the  garb  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church 
of  England  is  standing  patiently.  He  is  the  Reverend 
Matthew  Blount.] 

[16] 


ALL    C  L  E A  R 

BLOUNT 

Mrs.  Drind  lives  here? 

GIRL 

Yes,  sir. 

BLOUNT 

Is  she  in? 

OIRL 

No,  sir. 

BLOUNT 

Oh!     Will  slie  be  long? 

(J1RL 

What's  the  time? 

BLOUNT 

[Consulting  his  match.]     Ten  minutes  to  nine. 

niRL 
No,  sir.     She  won't  be  long. 

BLOUNT 

[Coming  in,  closing  the  door,  walking  down  the  steps 
and  looking  at  the  flushed  boy  and  the  excited  little 
girl.]     Are  you  her  children? 

GIRL 

[Shaking  her  head.]      No,  sir. 

BOY 

[Pointing  to  the  small  bed  in  the  corner.]  That's 
hers. 

[17] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Goes  over  and  looks  at  the  little  bed.}     B03'? 

BOY 

[Disdainfully.']     Naa. 

BLOUNT 

How  old  is  she? 

GIRL 

Three,  sir. 

BOY 

Go  on !     Look  at  her.     Ye  can't  wake  her. 
Doctor's  given  her  a  draught. 

BLOUNT 

[Turning  bach  the  cover  and  looking  at  the  sleeping 
child.]     Is  she  ill? 

GIRL 

Yes,  sir. 

BOY 

Only  a  cold. 

GIRL 

We're  minding  her. 

BOY 

She  is.     I'm  keepin'  'er  company. 

BLOUNT 

[Smiling.]     What's  your  name? 

BOY 

"Varnish." 

[18] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Laughing.']     Why? 

BOY 

'Cause  me  faice  is  alwa's  shiny.  Hers  is  "Leggy." 
Look  at  'em!  [Pointing  at  the  little  girl's  long  legs 
which  the  shortness  of  her  dress  accentuates.] 

BLOUNT 

And  what  are  your  other  names? 

GIRL 

Povey. 

BOY 

Baleh. 

BLOUNT 

I've  not  seen  you  at  St.  Luke's. 

BOY 

Naa. 

GIRL 

[Shakes  her  head.] 

BLOUNT 

Don't  you  go  to  church? 

BOY 

Mother  does.     I  mind  the  kids. 

GIRL 

Me,  too. 

[19] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLotr: 
do  you  li 

GIRL 
EOT 

BLOUXT 

I'll  call  on  your  mothe- 

Bor 

Methyc 

C-IRX 

An'  rain-:       -       ation  Am. 
he  sac. 

BOT 

-  ."  -  .:.  ed  ye! 

bloc: 
ra  might  like  von  to  have  a  little  holiday 

BOT 

ne  wouldn't. 

GIBX 

r  mine.     She  couldn't  spare  me.     She's  awav  all 
dav — saime  as  Mrs.  Drind — on'v  Mother's  home  by  six. 

[20]" 


ALL    CLEAR 

Then  I  come  'ere  till  nine  an'  watch  I  :inting  to 

tte  little  bed.] 

BOT 

I  don'  want  to  go.  anvwav.  I'd 

miss  it  alL 

BLOI'XT 

What  would  vou  m: 

BOT 

The  Zepj  :  -aid  Is: 

BLOUST 

[Sigl  Yr 

I  didn't  think  it  was  much  to  maike  a  fuss  about. 

BLOVXT 

Didnt  vou? 

BOT 

Did  t 

BLOrXT 

Weren't  you  afraid? 

i    • 

[Contemptuoi:  Naa!      I    air.:    tfraidk     .      them 

air-pins. 

Mother  an'  me  goes  to  the  An  t    ~:-.lter  an"  w 
it's  over. 

[21] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

Where  do  you  go?     [To  the  boy.] 

BOY 

To  the  top  o'  Jubilee  Hill  an'  watch  'em — when  I 
can  dodge  Mother.  She  goes  down  in  Mrs.  Parfitt's 
cellar — the  butcher's.  Stinkin'  down  there!  Miss  all  the 
fun,  an'  the  noise  scares  ye !  I  like  to  be  up  high  where 
ye  can  see  everything.  Wasn'  that  feller  larst  night  a 
blinkin'  coward?  Wouldn'  fight!  Ran  away!  [Re- 
gretfully.'}    I  wish  they'd  got  the  blighter. 

BLOUNT 

You  shouldn't  be  out  at  such  a  time,  my  little  man. 
It  isn't  fair  to  your  mother — or  to  yourself.  You  might 
be  struck. 

BOY 

Not  me!  I'd  dodge  'em.  I'm  very  quick.  An'  the 
bombs  drops  very  slow. 

GIRL 

I'm  not  afraid  now.  I  used  to  be  when  they  come 
first.  But  one  night  me  an'  mother  ran  into  a  shelter, 
an'  the  preacher  was  there — like  you,  'e  was — an'  'e  told 
me  not  to  be  afraid  o'  the  noise  o'  the  guns.  'E  said  it 
was  somethin'  to  be  thankful  for  an'  glad  about.  An' 
V  said  I  ought  to  thank  God  for  every  sound  of  a  gun 
'cause  it  meant  pertection.  The  greater  the  sound  the 
safer  we  was,  'e  said.     So  I  don'  mind  'em  now.     Wen 

[22] 


ALL    CLEAR 

the  great  big  'uns  go  orf  we  all  say,  "Thank  God  for 
that!" 

BLOUNT 

[Smiling.]  The  preacher  was  quite  right.  What 
shelter  do  you  go  to? 

GIRL 

St.  Bartholomew's.  Nice  there!  Gives  us  corfy  an' 
caikes  w'ile  the  raid's  on,  and  keep  singin'  all  the  time. 
Me  an'  mother  kind  o'  look  forward  to  'em.  An'  we 
'ave  a  poetess. 

BLOUNT 

[Smiling.]     Oh? 

GIRL 

Yaas.  She  ain't  eight  yet.  Seven-an'-'arf.  'Er  moth- 
er's in  the  Christmas-cracker  traide.  Wrote  a  'yran,  all 
by  'erself,  she  did.  Without  no  'elp  from  no  one.  Like 
to  'ear  it? 

BLOUNT 

Yes.     [Sits.] 

GIRL 

[Recites.]     God  is  our  refuge. 

Don't  be  dismayed. 

He  will  protect  us 

All  through  the  raid.  • 

When  danger  is  threatening 

We  never  need  fear. 

He'll  watch  over  the  weakest 

Until  the  "All  Clear." 
Ain't  it  good? 

[23] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

Y%9.     Very  good  indeed. 

BOY 

Sick«nin' !  [Laughs  derisively.]  Blinkin'  silly ! 
[Sits  up  on  the  table  dangling  his  feet.~\ 

BLOUNT 

I'll  tell  you  of  another  little  girl  who  is  as  much  a 
hero  as  any  of  the  brave  soldiers  fighting  to  defend  civi- 
lization. Her  name  is  Maggie  Brice.  She  came  in 
one  night  during  a  raid  to  my  Relief  Depot  with  her 
little  brother  of  seven.  The  mother  was  missing.  The 
two  little  children  were  homeless.  After  they  had  been 
told  where  to  go  for  the  night  the  little  girl  remembered 
that  there  was  a  baby  belonging  to  the  woman 
upstairs  where  they  lived  that  had  been  asleep  when  the 
bomb  exploded.  The  mother  had  gone  out  shopping, 
and  hadn't  been  seen  since.  The  two  little  children  set 
out  to  find  the  baby  but  half-way  there  the  boy's  cour- 
age failed  him  and  he.  ran  back  to  his  new  friends. 

BOY 

What  a  blinker ! 

BLOUNT 

[Smiles  at  him,  then  continues.]  But  Maggie  went 
on,  and  in  the  dark  groped  about  among  the  ruins  and 
piles  of  bricks  until  she  found  the  baby.  It  was  then 
too  dark  to  venture  back,  so  she  sat  nursing  the  baby 
in  the  ruins  all  night.     The  next  morning  she  arrived 

[24] 


ALL    CLEAR 

triumphantly  at  my  Relief  Depot  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms. 

GIRL 

[Excitedly.]     Was  the  baby's  mother  all  right? 

BLOUNT 

Yes.     Her  joy  at  seeing  it  was  wonderful. 

GIRL 

What  a  nice  story ! 

BLOUNT 

It's  true. 

BOY 

Pretty  good  for  a  girl !  I  don'  mind  the  dark.  I  wish 
I  was  big  anuff  to  go  up  an'  fight  the  blinkers. 

BLOUNT 

Bring  your  mother  to  my  Relief  Depot  when  the  next 
raid  comes.     I'll  take  good  care  of  you. 

BOY 

[Shakes  his  head.]  Mother  likes  the  cellar.  An'  I 
want  to  watch.  I  ain't  afraid  of  anythin'  them  Germans 
does. 

BLOUNT 

Ah!     Where  does  Mrs.  Drind  work? 


BOY 


Black  &  Grimm's  match  factorv. 

[25] 


ALL    CLEAR 

[The  door  opens  quietly  and  Norah  enters.  She 
closes  the  door  and  comes  down  the  steps.  She  is  a 
young,  pale,  sad  woman  of  25,  poorly  but  respectably 
dressed.  She  smiles  wearily  at  the  children  and  hurries 
over  to  the  little  bed,  but  stops  when  she  sees  Blount.] 

BLOUNT 

I  am  the  rector  of  St.  Luke's  Church.  May  I  have 
a  few  moments? 

NORAH 

Yes,  sir.  [To  girl,  as  she  goes  to  the  bed.]  How  is 
she? 

GIRL 

Been  asleep  a  hour.  Doctor  caime  an'  give  'er  some- 
thin'. 

NORAH 

Did  she  cough  much? 

GIRL 

Quite  a  bit  till  'e  came.  'E  says  she's  goin'  on  very 
nice,  though. 

NORAH 

Did  he? 

GIRL 

[Nods.]  She's  on  the  mend,  'e  says,  if  she  goes  on  as 
she's  bin  goin'. 

NORAH 

[Arranging  the  covers  and  smoothing  the  child's  hair 
and  pressing  her  brow  and  hands.]     Asleep  an  hour? 

[26] 


ALL    CLEAR 

GIRL 

More  'n  a  hour.     Not  a  sound. 

BOY 

An'  we  'ad  a  raid,  too. 

NOR  AH 

[Starts  anxiously.]      What? 

BOY 

[Nods  affirmatively.]  We  played  at  "Zepps."  [Imi- 
tates.'] Take  Cover!  Bang!  Bang!  Crash!  She  got 
killed.  I  was  just  taikin'  'er  to  the  mortch'ry  w'en  'e 
came  in.      [Laughs.] 

NORAH 

[Shivering.]     Why  do  you  play  such  games? 

BOY 

Blinkin'  good  game ! 

[Norah  looks  at  the  clergyman,  who  smiles  at  her.] 

BLOUNT 

He  doesn't  seem  to  be  disturbed  by  them.  To  him 
they  just  suggest  a  new  game.     [Pats  the  boy's  head.] 

NORAH 

What  would  become  of  them  if  anything  happened  to 
their  parents?  What  would  become  of  'er  if  anything 
happened  to  me? 

BLOUNT 

[Gravely.]     Exactly!     The  children  suffer  the  most. 

[27] 


ALL    CLEAR 

NORAH 

[Cuts  some  bread,  covers  it  with  margarine,  and  gives 
it  to  the  children.  Then  she  gives  the  little  girl  a  pen- 
ny.] Come  again  to-morrow  evening  before  Mrs.  Mase- 
ly  goes,  will  ye? 

GIRL 

Yes,  Mrs.  Drind. 

BLOUNT 

[Gives  them  a  coin  each.]  Tell  your  mothers  you 
met  me,  that  we  became  good  friends,  and  that  I  will 
call  on  them.  It  is  not  a  question  of  what  religions  your 
mothers  are.     All  are  one  in  protection  and  charity. 

BOY 

All  right!  But  Mother's  a  real  hobstinate  Methydist. 
So  Father  says — blinkin'  hobstinate.  '-Bye.  [Rmis  up 
the  steps,  opens  the  door,  and  looks  out.]  Fine  night 
for  a  raid  !     Blinkin'  dark ! 

NORAH 

[Shudders,  puts  her  arms  protectingly  around  the 
little  girl,  and  takes  her  to  the  steps.  Calls  to  the  boy.] 
Ya'll  take  her  to  her  door? 

BOY 

'Course  I  will.     Come  along,  "Leggy."    Ta,  ta ! 
[The  little  children  run  out  into  the  night.     Norah 
closes  the  door  and  comes  down  the  steps.] 

[28] 


A LL    CLEAR 


BLOUNT 

We  have  a  Shelter — a  Relief  Depot — in  connection 
with  St.  Luke's.  I  should  be  so  glad  if  you  would  bring 
your  baby  to  us  whenever  the  raids  happen. 

NORAH 

I  haven't  been  able  to  take  her  out  for  weeks,  sir. 
She's  'ad  a  cold — a  bad  cold.  I  wouldn'  dare.  It  'uld 
kill  'er.  They've  lost  so  many  babies  round  'ere  takin' 
'em  out  o'  their  warm  beds  into  the  night  air.  Their 
little  lungs  earn'  stand  it.  Pneumonia — that's  what  they 
gets.     An'  they  die.     Lots  of  'em  go  that  way. 

BLOUNT 

I  know. 

NORAH 

We  'ave  some  char  nee  if  we  stay  indoors.  An'  we're 
below  the  street  'ere. 

BLOUNT 

You'd  be  much  safer  at  the  Shelter.  And  we  take 
special  care  of  little  children.  Wrap  her  up  warmly. 
Do  come. 

NORAH 

All  right,  sir.  Soon  as  she's  better.  W'en  we  was  in 
Mile  End,  an'  she  was  well,  I  took  'er  to  one  once.  Very 
kind  they  was,  too.  I  usedn't  to  think  much  o'  church. 
Father  didn't  'old  with  it  w'en  we  was  little.  I  know 
more  w'at  it  means  since  we  went  to  that  Shelter. 

[29] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

I'm  glad  of  that. 

NORAH 

First  time  I  went  I  was  just  shakin'  wi'  fear.  The 
guns  was  shootin'  that  loud  an'  farst.  Wen  I  saw  the 
people  a-singin'  round  a  harmonium  wi'  the  bombs 
a-droppin'  outside  I  couldn'  think  'ow  they  could  do  it. 
I  was  most  dead  o'  fright,  an'  'oldin'  'er  close  to  me 
breast.  Cryin'  she  was,  too.  Then  someone  started  an 
'ymn,  "O,  for  a  faith  that  will  not  shrink,"  an'  I  joined 
in — though  me  voice  trembled  so  I  could  'ardly  speak. 
By  the  time  we'd  finished  I  didn'  seem  to  fear  nothin' 
much.  Wen  she  gets  well  I'm  goin'  to  church  reg'lar. 
Father  made  me  bitter  about  church.  'E  didn't  believe 
in  nothin';  Atheist,  'e  called  'isself.  But  I  earn'  be  bit- 
ter about  a  place  that  was  good  to  me  an'  'er. 

BLOUNT 

Where's  your  husband? 

NORAH 

Killed  in  France  these  three  vears. 

BLOUNT 

[Commiseratingly.]     Oh. 


'Gassed"  'e  was,  sir. 


NORAH 


[30] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Nods.]     Have  you  parents  living? 

NORAH 

No,  sir.     They  was  murdered. 

BLOUNT 

Murdered  ? 

NORAH 

The  Germans  murdered  them,  sir.  Killed  'em  from 
the  air.  Murdered  two  old  people.  Mother  'adn't  been 
out  o'  bed  for  two  years.  Paralysed  she  was.  Burnt  to 
death — she  an'  Father.  'E  wouldn'  leave  'er.  Found 
'em  together — burned  to  death. 

BLOUNT 

[Contracts  his  shoulders  in  pain.]     Horrible. 

NORAH 

German  work,  sir.  The  beasts !  [Blount  sits  think- 
ing.] Wen  I  was  small  we  used  to  think  'ow  wonderful 
soldiers  was,  sir.  An'  they  was,  too.  Father  took  me 
w'en  I  was  a  kid  to  see  'em  come  back  from  South 
Africa.  I  can  just  remember  'em  an'  the  crowds  o' 
people  cheerin'.  They  was  brave.  But  they  wasn'  Ger- 
mans. Germans !  [Makes  a  moue  of  disgust  as  though 
expectorating   something   foul.]      They're   a   brave   lot! 

"[31] 


ALL    CLEAR 

Guns  ain't  enough.  Swords  ain't  enough.  Too  clean  for 
Germans,  they  are.  They  'ad  to  find  somethin'  cowardly 
an'  cruel  an'  dirty.  An'  they  found  it.  Poison,  that's 
what  they  found — poison-gas.  My  Luke  got  it.  My 
man  died  that  way.  Choked  to  death.  It's  a  foul  death 
for  brave  men,  ain't  it,  sir?  Poisoned  like  vermin!  My 
Luke !  On'y  been  married  six  months,  sir.  'E  rushed 
orf  d'rec'ly  it  broke  out.  So  'appy  an'  cheerful,  'e 
was,  sir.  "I'll  come  back  a  general!"  That's  w'at  'e 
said.  "See  if  I  don't!"  'e  said.  Just  choked  to  death 
'e  was.  Sergeant  they'd  maide  'im,  too.  'E  never  saw 
'er.  [Pointing  to  the  child.']  A  good  man  'e  was  to  me, 
sir.  Never  drank  nothin',  an'  fond  of  'is  'ome.  Was 
lookin'  forward  to  'er,  too.  'Oped  she'd  be  a  boy.  'E'd 
'a'  been  so  proud  of  'er.  An'  everythin'  goin'  so  well 
till  it  broke  out !  Too  good  to  larst,  I  used  to  think  as  I 
lay  awaike  o'  nights  thinkin'  'ow  'appy  we  was.  An' 
so  it  turned  out.  Too  good  to  larst!  'Ere  I  am  now, 
all  alone — me  an'  'er. 

BLOUNT 

How  much  do  you  earn? 

NORAH 

I  got  'is  pension — an'  I  maike  eight  shillin's  at  the 
fact'ry.  I  do  pretty  well.  'Cept  w'en  she's  sick.  Then 
there's  doctors'  bills  an'  med'cine. 

BLOUNT 

If  I  could  get  you  away  from  London  into  munition 
work,  would  you  go?     You  would  be  safer.     It  would  be 

[32] 


ALL    CLEAR 

healthier  for  your  baby.    And  they'd  pay  you  much  bet- 
ter. 

NOR  AH 

I  tried  to  afore  I  got  this  plaice.  They  said  I  wasn't 
strong  enough.     They  want  healthy,  strong  people,  sir. 

BLOUNT 

We  have  a  little  place  in  Hampshire  connected  with 
St.  Luke's  where  we  send  children  and  sick  people  from 
time  to  time  for  a  week — longer  if  it  isn't  full.  Would 
you  like  that? 

NORAH 

I'd  lose  me  plaice,  sir.     'Undreds  waitin'  for  it. 

BLOUNT 

We  have  also  a  committee  for  finding  employment. 
If  you  got  really  strong  we  might  get  you  a  good  posi- 
tion under  the  government. 

NORAH 

[Dully,  with  no  enthusiasm.]  It  'ould  be  nice  of  ye, 
sir.  But  no  one  wants  ye  if  ye've  got  a  baby  an'  yer 
'ealth's  poor.  Babies  'ave  a  'ard  time  in  London,  sir. 
I  orf'n  wonder  so  many  of  'em  comes  through.  She 
don'  seem  to  pick  up  as  she  should.  No  light  or  air 
much  'ere.  If  anythin'  'appened  to  'er  I  wouldn'  want 
to  live.  She's  all  I  got.  An'  so  like  'im!  [Her  eyes 
full] 

[33] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

If  you  are  willing  I'll  have  you  both  sent  to  Hamp- 
shire as  soon  as  there's  room.  There  you'll  have  fresh 
air  and  simple  good  food.    Your  baby  will  thrive  on  it. 

NORAH 

All  right !    An'  thankin'  ye ! 

BI.OUNT 

[Rising.]  And  I  will  take  up  the  other  matter  of  em- 
ployment in  the  morning. 

NORAH 

Cruel,  dependin'  on  strangers,  ain't  it?  [Wistfully.] 
Luke  'ad  a  fortnight's  'oliday  every  year.  Wen  we  was 
keepin'  comp'ny  'e  used  to  taike  us  to  the  sea.  Wen 
we  was  married  'e  took  me  to  Wales.  Beautiful  it  was. 
An'  plenty  o'  friends  we  'ad  then.  Alwa's  laughin'  an' 
jokin'  'e  was.  Everj^one  liked  'im.  An'  now  'e's  lyin' 
in  a  foreign  country  without  a  stone  to  mark  'im.  If 
'e'd  'a'  died  by  a  bullet  or  a  sword  or  a  cannon,  w'y 
it  was  w'at  'e  went  out  to  taike  a  charnce  of.  But  to  be 
choked  by  poison,  oh,  my  Gawd!  [Fiercely.]  I  usedn't 
to  Relieve  in  'ell,  sir.  I  thought  it  was  a  word  to  fright- 
en simple  people  an'  children  with.  I  didn't  believe 
there  was  a  Gawd  who'd  maike  people  suffer  for  all  eter- 
nity, saime  as  churches  taught.  Now  I  'ope  'e  does. 
'E  wouldn't  be  a  good  Gawd  if  'e  didn't.     I  'opes  the 

[34] 


ALL    CLEAR 

brutes  'oo  burnt  my  father  an'  mother  burn  thcirselves, 
so  I  do.  An'  burn  forever.  There  should  be  a  hell  for 
them.  Wat  good  does  it  do  them  to  kill  us  poor  people  ? 
Frighten  us  into  maikin'  peace  is  w'at  a  woman  told  me. 
If  I  'ad  my  way  we'd  maike  no  peace  wi'  them  beasts 
till  the  larst  of  'em  was  burnin'  in  hell.  I  'ope  the 
wretches  'oo  poisoned  my  'usband  is  poisoned  with  sul- 
phur and  brimstone  as  long  as  there's  time. 

BLOUNT 

[Gently.]     Don't  say  that. 

NORAH 

[Fiercely.]  I  mean  it,  sir.  I  'ate  'em.  [Her  hands 
clenching.]     I  'ate  'em. 

BLOUNT 

We  shouldn't  hate.  We  must  try  to  forgive  them  as 
He  did  those  who  crucified  Him.  They  know  not  what 
I  hey  do. 

NORAH 

[Hotly.]  Oh,  yes,  they  do.  They  know  all  right,  sir. 
The  man  who  sends  them  things  over  us  knows  w'at 
'e's  doin'.  'E  sends  'em  to  murder  us.  An'  the  fellers 
w'at  drops  bombs  on  poor,  starvin'  old  people  an'  babies 
knows  w'at  they're  doin',  too.  An'  w'en  this  war's  over 
an'  they're  licked,  I  'ope  they'll  torture  'em  first  an' 
then  kill  'em,  sir.  That's  w'at  I  'ope.  An'  thousan's 
like  me.     An'  I  pray  to  Gawd  that  'e  'as  an  'ell  so  that 

[35] 


ALL    CLEAR 

their  souls  may  go  to  everlasting  torment.     That's  w'at 
I  pray,  sir. 

BLOUNT 

My  poor  young  woman,  no  good  can  come  out  of  hate. 

NORAH 

Then  there's  little  good  likely  to  come  out  of  me. 
There's  only  one  thing  I've  got  to  love,  sir, — my  baby. 
Wile  I'm  with  'er,  or  thinkin'  of  'er,  I  believe  in  a  good 
Gawd.  I  believe  'e  wouldn'  let  no  'arm  come  to  'er.  But 
if  they  kill  'er  .  .  .  [She  moves  away  and  looks  down 
at  her  l>aby  a  moment,  then  goes  back  to  Blount.}  'Er 
poor  father!  Choked,  'e  was,  sir.  That  was  German 
work,  wasn't  it,  sir?  Germans!  If  anyone  wants  to 
insult  ye  'e  calls  ye  German  now,  sir.  It's  the  filthiest 
word  ye  can  use  round  'ere.  The  sweepin's  of  our  pris- 
ons are  gennelmen  compared  to  them.  Whatever  they've 
done,  they're  payin'  for  it,  ain't  they?  There  ain't  a 
gaol  in  England  as  'olds  a  man  'oo  burnt  old  men 
an'  women  an'  little  children  to  death,  is  there,  sir? 
.  .  .  Forgive  'em !  I'll  never  forgive  'em.  ...  If  it 
wasn't  for  'er  I'd  arst  'em  to  send  me  out  in  the  woman's 
army,  sir.  I'd  like  to  be  doin'  somethin'  in  the  sound 
of  our  guns,  sir.  I'd  like  to  be  near  our  guns.  Every 
time  they'd  fire  I'd  say  to  meself,  "There  goes  a  dirty 
German's  soul  to  'ell."  I  say  it  now  w'en  I  'ear  our 
guns  a-shootin'  at  them  beasts  in  the  air.  Fine  work  for 
men,  ain't  it?  Droppin'  death  out  o'  the  sky  on  us. 
'Ow  long  d'ye  suppose  Gawd'll  let  'em  go  on,  sir? 

[36] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

We're  in  his  hands.  This  war  is  the  scourge  He  has 
sent  to  chasten  us  with. 

NORAH 

Is  it? 

BLOUNT 

It  is.  And  we  must  bear  it  because  it  is  His  will  that 
we  should.  Sonic  day  it  will  pass — some  blessed  day! — 
and  though  our  souls  have  been  tried  we  shall  be  the 
richer  for  it. 

NORAH 

Richer  for  it?  'Ow  much  richer  shall  /  be,  sir?  No 
one — nothin'  left  but  'er.  An'  w'ile  there's  light  in  the 
day  I'm  indoors  workin'  to  keep  even  this  place  over  'er. 
An'  every  night  w'en  I  get  back  I'm  wonderin'  if  she's 
died  durin'  the  day.  An'  w'en  they  come  in  the  dark  me 
'ead's  in  a  panic  lest  they  do  for  'er.  I  sit  'ere,  watch- 
in'  over  'er,  me  arms  around  'er,  waitin'  for  the  "All 
Clear."  .  .  .  Wen  them  brutes  is  beaten  down  so's 
they  can  never  rise  again — then  it'll  be  "All  Clear.'' 
But  not  till  then,  sir. 

BLOUNT 

Don't  think  I  can't  feel  for  you.  I  do.  Come  to  us. 
We'll  try  to  lighten  your  way.  You'll  find  the  day 
easier  and  danger  less  difficult  to  face  if  you  keep  saying 
to  vourself,  "It  is  His  will." 

[37] 


\3  4  o 


ALL    CLEAR 


NORAH 


I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it.  No  Gawd  could 
be  so  cruel  as  to  let  them  brutes  torture  people  as  they've 
done.  If  there  was  a  good  Gawd  'e'd  send  fire  from 
'eaven  to  destroy  'em,  an'  as  'E  won't  we've  got  to.  [Her 
hands  clench  and  unclench  nervously.]  Destroy  'em! 
That's  it !  Destroy  'em  !  Till  none  are  left !  Not  one  ! 
The  beasts !  Beasts!  Beasts!  [Her  voice  faints  awaij 
though  her  lips  continue  to  move.] 

BLOUNT 

We  will  gladly  welcome  you  at  our  Shelter — as  soon 
as  you  can  bring  her.  [Making  note  in  book.]  To- 
morrow I  will  see  about  a  little  trip  to  the  country.  That 
will  be  splendid  for  you  both.  Keep  a  good  heart,  Mrs. 
Drind.  Others  are  suffering  too,  and  not  a  word  of  com- 
plaint. I  have  not  escaped.  I,  too,  am  alone,  Mrs. 
Drind.  The  war  has  claimed  everyone  near  and  dear 
to  me.  Every  one.  And  I  say  in  all  belief  and  sincer- 
ity, "It  is  His  will."  I  say  it  from  my  heart.  That  is 
because  I  believe  in  Him.  I  do  not  permit  myself  ha- 
tred.    It  cripples.     It  tightens  the  heart. 

NORAH 

Mine  is  tight,  sir.  I  feel  like  bursting  sometimes 
w'en  I  think  of  my  poor  'usband  and  my  parents.  I 
got  to  'ate.    An'  I  do. 

[38] 


ALL    CLEAR 

BLOUNT 

[Sadly.]  Justice  is  His.  He  will  deliver  us  from 
our  enemies  if  we  believe  in  Him.  He  will  render  jus- 
tice to  them. 

NORAH 

I  want  to  see  justice  given  'em  now — now. 

BLOUNT 

[Realises  he  can  no  longer  persuade;  touches  her 
gently  on  the  shoulder.]     God  protect  you!    Good  night! 

NORAH 

Good-night,  sir ! 

[He  goes  out.  The  irind  rushes  in  through  the  door 
as  he  opens  it,  and  moans  as  he  shuts  it  behind  him. 
Norah  first  looks  at  the  sleeping  child,  then  gives  a  ges- 
ture of  great  weariness.  She  goes  to  the  fireplace  and 
puts  the  kettle  on  the  dull  fire,  then  drags  herself,  grow- 
ing more  and  more  listless  every  moment,  to  the  table 
and  cuts  some  bread.  She  tries  to  eat  it.  Puts  it  down. 
Sighs.  Goes  over  to  the  bed  and  sits  beside  it,  looking 
denm  at  the  child.]  I  am  not  to  'ate  them,  my  dear  one. 
I'm  not  to  'ate  the  beasts  'oo  poisoned  your  father  an' 
burned  mine  an'  me  poor  mother.  I'm  not  to  'ate  the 
brutes  'oo  took  away  from  you  all  joy  before  you  ever 
came  into  the  world.  An'  thousands  an'  thousands  are 
like  us  to-night — all  alone,  facing  death — through  them. 
We'll  'ate  'em,  dear,  won't  we?  An'  as  long  as  I've 
breath  I'll  curse  'em.     An'  so  will  you  if  you  live  and 

[39] 


ALL    CLEAR 

grow  up  into  a  woman  with  not  a  sight  to  gladden  your 

little  eyes,  not  a  soul  near  ye  but  me.     We're  the  only 

ones  near  each  other,  dear. 

[The  child  moves  uneasily  and  moans  slightly.  Norah 
smooths  the  child's  pillow  and  makes  it  easier  for 
her,  then  drags  herself  listlessly  to  the  door  and  bolts 
it,  pours  some  water  from  the  now  boiling  kettle  into 
the  cracked  teapot  and  leaves  it  on  the  hob  to  draw. 
She  clears  a  way  her  hat  and  coat,  making  a  place  at 
the  table.  Faintly,  from  the  distance,  comes  the  sound 
of  guns.  She  listens,  terrified.  People  can  be  heard 
running,  and  low  sounds  of  alarm  come  from  the 
street.  The  sound  of  the  guns  increases.  A  voice  of 
authority  is  heard  all  down  the  street,  beginning  quiet- 
ly, growing  louder  as  the  man  passes,  and  then  dying 
away,  calling  in  stern,  admonishing  tones,  "Take 
cover!"  "Take  cover!"  "Take  cover!"  She  gives  a 
little  gasp,  puts  out  the  light,  hurries  over  to  the  little 
bed,  kneels  down  beside  it,  and  spreads  herself  over 
the  child,  praying  breathlessly  and  inaudibly.  The 
guns  grow  louder,  the  sounds  nearer  and  nearer. 
Explosions  are  heard  from  afar.  Rapid-fire  guns  in- 
crease in  volume  until  they  seem  over  the  house.  A 
loud  explosion  comes  as  a  bomb  explodes  in  front  of 
the  house.  The  door  is  blown  in,  the  place  quivers, 
then  a  mass  of  debris  pours  in  onto  the  bed.  Norah 
gives  a  long,  wailing  cry,  and  falls  away  from  the 
bed.  Then  silence.  The  guns  go  on  and  on.  Explo- 
sions can  be  heard  from  distant  parts  as  the  raiders  go 
on  on  their  work  of  destruction.     Two  policemen  ap- 

[40] 


ALL    CLEAR 

pear  in  the  opening  made  by  the  bomb.  Each  has 
his  little  placard,  "Take  Cover!"  With  the  light  of 
the  lanterns  fastened  on  their  belts  they  move  down 
the  now  shaky  steps.] 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

Just  the  basement  struck.  The  rest  of  the  house  is 
all  right. 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

Who  lives  'ere? 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

Only  a  woman  and  her  child. 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

Perhaps  she  got  out  in  time. 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

No  fire,  anyway.  Better  put  this  out.  [Takes  up 
kettle  and  pours  the  water  on  the  dull  fire.  It  hisses  in 
protest  as  it  goes  out.~\ 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

When  they  sit  round  the  peace-table  I  'ope  they 
maikes  'em  pay  for  this. 

FIRST   POLICEMAN 

Not  they !  Six  months  after  the  war's  over  they'll 
be  sellin'  German  goods  all  over  London. 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

Likely  as  not!    We  brought  one  of  'em  down.     See  it? 

[41] 


ALL    CLEAR 

FIRST   POLICEMAN 

An'  then  w'at?  They'll  give  'em  a  military  funeral 
at  the  taxpayers'  expense  an'  taike  us  orf  our  regular 
jobs  to  keep  the  crowd  back.  An'  if  they're  alive  they'll 
be  sent  up  to  Donnington  Hall  an'  fed  on  the  fat  o'  the 
land. 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

I'd  hang  'em,  out  in  the  open.     That's  w'at  I'd  do. 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

So  would  any  Christian. 
[During  the  foregoing  they  have  been  searching  through 
the   ruins   with   the  aid  of  their  lanterns.      He  finds 
Norah.] 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

Hello !  [He  kneels  down,  puts  the  light  on  her  face, 
and  listens  to  her  heart.] 

SECOND     TOLICEMAN 

Is  she  alive? 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

Don't  know.  [Waits.]  Yes.  Only  just,  though. 
Where's  the  kid?  [Taking  out  a  large  handkerchief 
and  wiping  away  the  blood  and  dust.] 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

[Finds  the  shattered  bed  and  turns  his  light  on  to 
a  shapeless  mass  that  once  was  Norah's  little  child. 
Under  his  breath  he  ejaculates.]     Oh,  my  Gawd! 

[42] 


ALL    CLEAR 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

Done  in? 

SECOND     POLICEMAN 

Just  a  mess. 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

The  dirty  brutes  !  Give  me  a  hand  !  [They  go  to  each 
side  of  Norah  and  raise  her  gently.]  Get  her  down  to 
the  station.  It's  too  far  to  the  'orspital.  [Norah  opens 
her  eyes  and  moans.]  Come  on,  ma'am!  You'll  be  all 
right.  She's  comin'  to.  [Moving  her  slowly  across,  half 
lifted  off  the  ground.] 

NORAH 

[Faintly.]      Where's  my  baby? 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

It'll  be  all  right,  ma'am.  Come  along!  [They  reach 
the  steps.] 

NORAH 

My  baby!     Where's  my  baby? 

FIRST    POLICEMAN 

Lift  her!    Baby  will  be  all  right,  ma'am.     That's  it! 

NORAH 

Where's — my — baby  ? 
[They  carry  her  up  the  steps.] 

[43] 


ALL    CLEAR 

NORAH 

Where's — my — baby  ? 
[They  disappear  into  the  street.  The  guns  begin  to 
grow  fainter  and  fainter,  them  they  stop.  Footsteps 
are  heard  rushing  past.  Street  cries.  Laughter  of 
children.  The  "All  Clear!"  is  sounded.  Faintly, 
from  the  distance,  as  if  carried  in  on  the  breeze,  comes 
the  sound  of  Xorah's  tired,  frightened  voice  of  agony.] 
I — want — iny — baby. 

CIRTAIN 


[44] 


Written  July,  1917 


GOD  OF  MY  FAITH 

A  Play  for  Pacifists 
In  One  Act 


"If  the  God  of  my  Faith  be  a  liar 
Who  is  it  that  I  shall  trust?" 


[47] 


THE  PEOPLE  IN  THE  PLAY 

Nelson   Dartrey 
Dermod  Gilruth 


The  action  passes  in  Dartrey's  Chambers  in  the  late 
Spring  of  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Fifteen. 

[The  lowering  of  the  Curtain  momentarily  will  denote 
the  passing  of  several  days.] 


[48] 


GOD  OF  MY  FAITH 

The  curtain  discloses  a  dark  oak  room.     Nelson  Dar- 
trey  is  seated  at  a  writing  table  studying  maps.     He 
is  a  man  in  the  early  thirties,  prematurely  worn  and 
old.     His  face  is  burned  a  deep  brick  colour  and  is 
sharpened  by  fatigue  and  loss  of  blood.     His  hair  is 
sparse,  dry  and  turning  grey.     Around  the  upper  part 
of  his  head  is  a  bandage  covered  largely  by  a  black 
skull-cap.     Of  over  average  height  the  man  is  spare 
and  muscular.     The  eye  is  keen  and  penetrating;  his 
voice  abrupt  and  authoritative.     An  occasional  flash, 
of  humour  brings  an  old-time  twinkle  to  the  one  and 
heartiness  to  the  other.     He  is  wearing  the  undress 
uniform  of  a  major  in  the  British  army.     The  door 
bell  rings.     With  an  impatient  ejaculation  he  goes  in- 
to the  passage  and  opens  the  outer  door.     Standing 
outside,  cheerfully  humming  a  tune,  is  a  large,  force- 
fid,  breezy  young  man  of  twenty-eight.     He  is  Der- 
mod  Gilruth.   Splendid  in  physique,  charming  of  man- 
ner, his   slightly -marked   Dublin   accent   lends   a   pi- 
quancy to  his  conversation.     He  has  all  the  ease  and 
poise  of  a  travelled,  polished  young  man  of  breeding. 
Dartrey's  face  brightens  as  he  holds  out  a  welcoming 
hand. 

[49] 


GOD     O  F     M  Y     F  A  I  T  H 

DARTREY 

Hello,  Gil. 

GILRUTH 

[Saluting  him  as  he  laughs  genially.]  May  I  come 
into  officer's  quarters? 

DARTREY 

I'm  glad  to  have  you.  I'm  quite  alone  with  hcurs  on 
my  hands.  [He  brings  Gilruth  into  the  room  and  wheels 
a  comfortable  leather  arm  chair  in  front  of  him.]  Sit 
down. 

GILRUTH 

Indeed  I  will  not.  Look  at  your  desk  there.  I'll  not 
interrupt  your  geography  for  more  than  a  minute. 

DARTREY 

[Forces  him  into  the  chair.]  I'm  glad  to  get  away 
from  it.     Why,  you  look  positively  boyish. 

GILRUTH 

And  why  not?     I  am  a  boy.      [Chuckles.] 

DARTREY 

What  are  you  so  pleased  with  yourself  about? 

GILRUTH 

The  greatest  thing  in  the  world  for  youth  and  high 
spirits.     I'm  going  to  be  married  next  week. 

[50] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

DARTREY 

[Incredulously.]      You're  not? 

GILRUTH 

I  tell  you  I  am. 

DARTREY 

Don't  be  silly. 

GILRUTH 

What's  silly  about  it? 

DARTREY 

Oh,  I  don't  know. 

GILRUTH 

Of  course  you  don't  know.    You  have  never  tried  it. 

DARTREY 

I  should  think  not. 

GILRUTH 

Well,   I'm   going  to   and    I    want   you   to    father   me. 
Stand  up  beside  me  and  see  me  through.     Will  you? 

DARTREY 

If  you  want  me  to. 

GILRUTH 

Well,  I  do  want  you  to. 

DARTREY 

All  right! 

[51] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

GILRUTH 

You  don't  mind  now? 

DARTREY 

My  dear  chap.     It's  charming  of  you  to  think  of  me. 

GILRUTH 

I've  known  you  longer  than  anyone  ever  here.  And  I 
like  you  better.     So  there  you  are. 

DARTREY 

[Laughing.]      Poor  old  Dermod!     Well,  well! 

GILRUTH 

There's  nothing  to  laugh  at,  or  "well,  well"  about. 

DARTREY 

Do  I  know  the ? 

GILRUTH 

[Shakes  his  head.]  She's  never  been  over  before. 
Everything  will  be  new  to  her.  I  tell  you  it's  going  to 
be  wonderful.  I've  planned  out  the  most  delightful  trip 
through  Ireland — she's  Irish,  too. 

DARTREY 

Is  she? 

[52  1 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

GILRUTII 

But,  like  me,  born  in  America.     She's  crazy  to  see  the 
old  country. 

DARTREY 

She  couldn't  have  a  better  guide. 

GILRUTH 

[Enthusiastically.]  She's  beautiful,  she's  brilliant, 
she's  good — she's  everything  a  man  could  wish. 

DARTREY 

That's  the  spirit.  Will  you  make  your  home  over 
here  ? 

GILRUTH 

No.  We'll  stay  till  the  autumn.  Then  I  must  go 
back  to  America.  But  some  day  when  all  this  fighting 
is  over  and  people  talk  of  something  besides  killing 
each  other,  I  want  to  have  a  home  in  Ireland. 

DAltTREY 

I  suppose  most  of  you  Irishmen  in  America  want  to 
do  that? 

GILRUTH 

Indeed  they  do  not.  Once  they  get  out  to  America 
and  do  well  they  stay  there  and  become  citizens.  My 
father  did.      Do  you  think  he'd  live   in   Ireland  now? 

[53] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

Xot  he.  He  talks  all  the  time  about  Ireland  and  the 
hated  Sassenacks — that's  what  he  calls  you  English — 
and  he  urges  the  fellows  at  home  in  the  old  country  to 
fight  for  their  rights.  But  since  he  made  his  fortune 
and  became  an  American  citizen  the  devil  a  foot  has  he 
ever  put  on  Irish  soil.  He's  always  going,  but  he  hasn't 
got  there  yet.  And  as  for  living  there !  Oh,  no,  America 
is  good  enough  for  him,  because  his  interests  are  there. 
I  want  to  live  in  Ireland  because  my  heart  is  there. 
[Springing  up.]  Now  I'm  off.  .You  don't  know  how 
happy  you  make  me  by  promising  to  be  my  best  man. 

DARTREY 

My  dear  fellow 

GILRUTH 

And  just  wait  until  you  see  her.  Eyes  you  lose  your- 
self in,  a  voice  soft  as  velvet:  a  brain  so  nimble  that 
wit  flows  like  music  from  her  tongue.  Poetry,  too.  She 
dances  like  thistledown  and  sings  like  a  thrush.  And 
with  all  that  she's  in  love  with  me. 

DARTREY 

I'm  delighted. 

GILRUTH 

I  want  her  to  meet  you  first.  A  snug  little  dinner 
before  the  wedding.  She's  heard  so  much  against  the 
English  I  want  her  to  see  the  best  specimen  they've  got. 

[54] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

[Bartrey  laughs  heartily.]  I  tell  you  if  you  pass  mus- 
ter with  her  you  have  the  passport  to  Kingdom  Come. 
[Laughing  as  well  as  he  grips  Dartrey's  hand.] 

DARTREY 

[As  they  walk  to  the  door.]     When  will  it  be? 

GILRUTH 

Next  Tuesday.      I'll  ring  you  up  and  give  you  the  full 
particulars. 

DARTREY 

In  church? 

GILRUTH 

Church?     Cathedral!     His  Eminence  will  officiate. 

DARTREY 

Topping. 

GILRUTH 

Well,  you  see,  we  Irish  only  marry  once.     So  we  make 
an  occasion  of  it. 

DARTREY 

Splendid.     I'll  look  forward  to  it. 

GILRUTH 

[Looking  at  the  bandage.]     Is  your  head  getting  all 

right? 

[55] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

DARTREY 

Oh  dear,  yes.  It's  quite  healed  up.  I'll  have  this 
thing  off  in  a  day  or  two.  [Touching  the  bandage.]  I 
expect  to  be  back  in  a  few  weeks. 

GILRUTH 

[Anxiously.]     Again? 

DARTREY 

Yes. 

GILRUTH 

If  ever  a  man  had  done  his  share,  you  have. 

DARTREY 

They  need  me.     They  need  us  all. 

GILRUTH 

The  third  time. 

DARTREY 

There  are  many  who  have  done  the  same. 

GILRUTH 

[Shudders.]     How  long  will  it  last? 

DARTREY 


Until  the  Hun  is  beaten. 

[56] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

GILRUTH 

Years,  eh? 

DARTREY 

It  looks  like  it  We've  hardly  begun  yet.  It  will  take 
a  year  to  really  get  the  ball  rolling.  Then  things  will 
happen.  Tell  me:  how  do  they  feel  in  America? 
Frankly. 

GILRUTH 

All  the  people  who  matter  are  pro-Ally. 

DARTREY 

Are  you  sure? 

GILRUTH 

I'm  positive. 

DARTREY 

Are  you?    Come,  now. 

GILRUTH 

Why,  of  course  I  am. 

DARTREY 

They  may  be  pro-Ally,  but  they're  not  pro-English. 

GILRUTH 

That's  true.  Many  of  them  are  not.  But  if  ever  the 
test  comes,  they  will  be. 

[57] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

DARTREY 

[Shakes  his  head  doubt  fully.]  I  wonder.  It  seems 
a  pity  not  to  bury  all  the  Bunker-Hill  and  Boston-tea- 
chest  prejudices. 

GILRUTH 

You're  right  there. 

DARTREY 

Why  your  boys  and  girls  are  taught  in  their  school- 
books  to  hate  us. 

GILRUTH 

In  places,  they  are.  Now  that  I  know  the  English 
a  little  I  have  been  agitating  to  revise  them.  It  all 
seems  so  damned  cheap  and  petty  for  a  big  country  to 
belittle  a  great  nation,  through  the  mouths  of  children? 

DARTREY 

There's  no  hatred  like  family  hatred.  After  all,  we're 
cousins,  speaking  the  same  tongue  and  with  pretty  much 
the  same  outlook. 

GILRUTH 

There's  one  race  in  America  that  holds  back  as  strong- 
ly as  it  can  any  better  understanding  between  the  two 
countries,  and  that's  my  race — the  Irish.  And  well  I 
know  it.  I  was  brought  up  on  it.  There  are  men  to-day, 
men  of  position,  too,  in  our  big  cities  who  have  openly 
said  thev  want  to  see  England  crushed  in  this  war. 

[58] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 


DARTREV 


So  I've  heard.     It  would  be  a  sorry  day  for  the  rest 
of  civilization,  and  particularly  America,  if  we  were. 


GILRUTH 

You  can't  convince  them  of  that.  They  carry  on  the 
prejudices  and  hatred  of  generations.  I  have  accused 
some  of  them  of  being  actively  pro-German;  of  tinker- 
ing with  German  money  to  foster  revolution  in  Ireland. 

DARTREY 

Do  you  believe  that? 

GILRUTH 

I  do.  Thank  God  there  are  not  many  of  them.  I 
have  accused  them  of  taking  German  money  and  then 
urging  the  poor  unfortunate  poets  and  dreamers  to  do 
the  revoluting  while  they  are  safely  three  thousand  miles 
away.  I  don't  know  of  many  who  are  willing  to  cross 
the  water  and  do  it  themselves.  Talking  and  writing 
seditious  articles  is  safe.  Take  my  own  father.  He 
says  frankly  that  he  doesn't  want  Germany  to  win  be- 
cause he  hates  Germans.  Most  Irishmen  do.  But  all 
the  same  he  wants  to  see  England  lose.  All  the  doubt- 
ful ones  I  know,  who  don't  dare  come  out  in  the  open, 
speak  highly  of  the  French  and  are  silent  when  England 
is  mentioned.  I  blame  a  great  deal  of  that  on  your  Gov- 
ernment. You  take  no  pains  to  let  the  rest  of  the  world 
know  what  England  is   doing.      You  and   I   know  that 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

without  the  British  fleet  America  wouldn't  rest  as  easy 
as  she  does  to-day,  and  without  the  little  British  army 
the  Huns  would  have  been  in  Paris  and  Calais  months 
ago.  We  know  that  and  so  do  many  others.  But  the 
great  mass  of  the  people,  particularly  the  Irish,  cry  all 
the  time,  "What  is  England  doing?"  Your  government 
should  see  to  it  that  they  know  what  she's  doing. 

DARTREY 

It's  not  headquarters'  way. 

GILRUTH 

I  know  it  isn't.  And  the  more's  the  pity.  Another 
thing  where  you  went  all  wrong.  Why  not  have  let 
Asquith  clear  up  the  Irish  muddle?  Why  truckle  to  a 
handful  of  disloyal  North  of  Ireland  traitors?  If  the 
Government  had  courtmartialed  the  ring  leaders,  tried 
the  rest  for  treason  and  put  the  Irish  Government  in 
Dublin,  why,  man,  three-quarters  of  the  male  popula- 
tion of  the  South  of  Ireland  would  be  in  the  trenches 
now. 

DARTREY 

Don't  let  us  get  into  that.  I  was  one  of  the  officers 
who  mutinied.  I  would  rather  resign  my  commission 
than  shoot  down  loyal  subjects. 

GILRUTH 

[Hotly.]  Loyal?  Loyal?  When  they  refused  to 
carry  out  their  Government's  orders?     When  they  deny 

[60] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

justice    to    a    long    suffering    people?      Loyal!      Don't 
prostitute  the  word. 

DARTREY 


[Angrily.]      I  don't  want  to 

GILRUTH 

[Going  on  vehemently.]  It's  just  that  kind  of  pig- 
headed ignorance  that  has  kept  the  two  countries  from 
understanding  each  other.  Why  shouldn't  Ireland  gov- 
ern herself.  South  Africa  does.  Australia  does.  And 
when  you're  in  trouble  they  leap  to  your  flag.  Yet 
there  is  a  country  a  few  miles  from  you  that  sends  the 
best  of  her  people  to  your  professions  and  they  invari- 
ably get  to  the  top  of  them.  Irishmen  have  commanded 
your  armies  and  Ireland  has  given  you  admirals  for 
your  fleet  and  at  least  one  of  us  has  been  your  Lord 
Chief  Justice.  Yet,  by  God,  they  can't  be  trusted  to 
govern  themselves.  I  tell  you  the  English  treatment  of 
Ireland  makes  her  the  laughing-stock  of  the  world. 

DARTREY 

[Opens  the  door,  then  turns  and  looks  straight  at  Gil- 
ruth.]     My  head  bothers  me.     Will  you  kindly 

GILRUTH 

[All  contrition.]  I'm  so  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to 
blaze  out.  Do  forgive  me  like  a  good  fellow.  It's  an 
old  sore  of  mine  and  sometimes  it  makes  me  wince.  It 
did  just  now.     Don't  be  mad  with  me. 

[61] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

[The  sound  of  a  boy's  voice  calling  newspapers  is  heard 
faintly  in  the  distance;  then  the  hoarse  tones  of  a  man 
shouting  indistinctly;  then  a  chorus  of  men  and  boys 
comes  nearer  and  nearer  calling  of  some  calamity. 
Darteey  hurries  out  through  the  outer  door.  Gil- 
ruth  stands  ashamed.  He  does  not  want  to  leave 
his  friend  in  bad  blood.  He  would  like  to  put  things 
right  before  going.  He  waits  for  Dartre y  to  come 
back. 

[In  a  few  moments  Dartrey  walks  through  the  outer 
doorway  and  into  the  room.  He  is  very  white,  very 
agitated,  and  his  face  is  set  and  determined.  He  is 
reading  the  "special"  edition  of  an  evening  paper  with 
great  "scare"  head  lines. 

[The  sound  of  the  voices  crying  the  news  in  the  street 
grows  fainter  and  fainter. 

[Dartrey  stops  in  front  of  Gilruth  and  tries  to  speak, 
nothing  coherent  comes  from  his  lips.  He  thrusts  the 
paper  into  Gilruth's  hands  and  watches  his  face  as 
he  reads. 

[Gilrcth  reads  it  once  slowly,  then  rapidly.  He  stands 
immovable  staring  at  the  news-sheet.  It  slips  from 
his  fingers  and  he  cowers  down,  stooping  at  the  shoul- 
ders, glaring  at  the  floor.] 

dartrey 

[Almost  frenzied.]  Now  will  your  country  come  in? 
Now  will  tliey  fight  for  civilization?  A  hundred  of  her 
men,  women  and  children  done  to  death.  Is  that  war? 
Or   is   it   murder?      Already   men   are    reading   in    New 

[62] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

York  and  Washington  of  the  sinking  of  that  ship  and 
the  murder  of  their  people.  What  are  they  going  to 
do  ?     What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

GILBUTH 

[Creeps  unsteadily  to  the  door;  steadying  himself 
with  a  hand  on  the  lock;  his  back  to  the  room.  He 
speaks  in  a  strange,  far-off,  quavering  voice.}  She  was 
on  the  Lusitania!  Mona.  She  was  on  it.  Mona  was 
on  it. 
[Creeps    out    through    the    street   door    and   disappears. 

Dartrey  looks  after  him.'] 
[The  curtain  falls  and  rises  again  in  a  few  moments. 
Several  days  have  elapsed.  Dartrey,  in  full  uniform, 
is  busily  packing  his  regimental  kit.  The  bandage  has 
been  removed  from  his  head.  The  telephone  bell  rings. 
Dartrey  answers  it.] 

DARTREY 

Yes.     Yes.     Who  is  it?     Oh!     Do.     Yes.     No.     Not 

at  all.     Come  up.     All  right. 

[Replaces  the  receiver  and  continues  packing.  In  a 
few  moments  the  door  bell  rings.  Dartrey  opens  the 
outer  door  and  brings  Gilruth  into  the  room.  He  is 
in  deep  mourning;  is  very  white  and  broken.  He 
seems  grievously  ill.  Dartrey  looks  at  him  commis- 
eratingly.     He  is  sensitive  about  speaking.] 

gilruth 

[Faintly.]     Put  up  with  me  for  a  bit?     Will  you? 
[Dartrey  just  puis  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder.] 

[68] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

[Gilruth    sinks    wearily    and   lifelessly    into    a    chair.] 
She  is  buried. 


What  ? 


DARTREY 


GILRUTH 


[Xods.]  She  is  buried.  In  Kensal  Green.  Flalf  an 
hour  ago. 

li  \RTREY 

\fu  a  whisper.]      They  found  her? 

GILRUTH 

[Xods  again.]      Picked  up  by  some  fishermen. 

DARTREY 

Queenstown  ? 

GILRUTH 

A  few  miles  outside.  I  went  there  that  night  and 
staved  there  until — until  she — they  found  her.  [Covers 
his  fare.  Dartre y  puts  his  arm  around  him  and  presses 
his  shoulder.]  I  wandered  round  there  for  days.  Wasn't 
so  bad  while  it  was  light.  People  to  talk  to.  All  of  us 
on  the  same  errand.  Searching.  Searching.  Searching. 
Hoping — some  of  them.  I  didn't.  I  knew  from  the 
first.  I  knew.  It  was  horrible  at  night  alone.  I  had  to 
try  and  sleep  sometimes.  They'd  wake  me  when  the 
bodies  were  brought  in.  Hers  came  toward  dawn  one 
morning.  Three  little  babies,  all  twined  in  each  other's 
arms,  lying  next  to  her.    Three  little  babies.     Cruel  that. 

[64] 


COD     OF     MY     FAITH 

Wasn't  it?  [Waits  as  lie  thinks;  then  he  goes  on  dully, 
evenly,  with  no  emotion.']  Fancy!  She'd  been  out  in 
that  water  for  days  and  nights.  All  alone.  Tossed 
about.  Days  and  nights.  She !  who'd  never  hurt  a  soul. 
Couldn't.  She  was  always  laughing  and  happ3T.  Drift- 
ing about.  All  alone.  Quite  peaceful  she  looked.  Ex- 
cept— except [Covers  his  eyes  and  groans.     In  a 

little  while  he  looks  up  at  Dartrey  and  touches  his  left 
eye.]  This.  Gone.  Gulls.  [Dartrey  draws  his  breath 
in  sharply  and  turns  a  little  away.]  In  a  few  hours 
the  cuts  opened.     The  salt-water  had  kept  them  closed. 

DARTREY 

Cuts? 

GILRUTH 

[Arocfo.]  Her  head.  And  her  face.  Cuts.  Blood 
after  all  that  time.  [He  clenches  and  unclenches  his 
hands  nervously  and  furiously.  He  gets  up  slowly,  walks 
over  to  the  fireplace,  shivers,  then  braces  himself,  trying 
to  shake  off  the  horror  of  his  thoughts.  Then  he  be- 
gins to  speak  brokenly  and  tremblingly,  endeavoring  to 
moisten  his  lips  with  a  dry  tongue.] 

Never  saw  anything  to  equal  the  kindness  of  those 
poor  peasants.  They  gave  the  clothes  from  their  bodies ; 
the  blankets  from  their  beds.  And  took  nothing.  Not  a 
thing.  "We're  all  in  this/'  they  said.  "We're  doing 
our  best.  It's  little  enough."  That's  what  they  said. 
Pretty  fine,  the  Irish  of  Queenstown.     Eh? 

[Dartrey  nods.    He  does  not  trust  himself  to  speak.] 

[65] 


COD     OF     MY     FAITH 

A  monument.  That's  what  the  Irish  peasants  of  Queens- 
town  should  have.  A  monument.  Never  slept,  some  of 
them.  Wrapped  the  soaking  women  in  their  shawls — 
and  the  little  children.  Took  off  their  wet  things  and 
gave  them  dry,  warm  ones.  Fed  them  with  broths  they 
cooked  themselves.  Spent  their  poor  savings  on  brandy 
for  them.  Stripped  the  clothes  off  their  own  backs  for 
them  to  travel  in  when  they  were  well  enough  to  go.  And 
wouldn't  take  a  thing.  Great  people,  the  Irish  of  Queens- 
town.  Nothing  much  the  matter  with  them.  A  monu- 
ment. That's  what  they  should  have.  And  poetry. 
[Thinks  for  a  little  while,  then  goes  on.~\  Laid  out  the 
bodies,  too;  just  as  reverently  as  if  they  were  their  own 
people.  They  laid  her  out.  And  prayed  over  her.  And 
watched  with  me  until  she  was  put  into  the —  Such  a 
tiny  little  shell  it  was,  too.  She  had  no  father  or  mother 
or  brothers  or  sisters.  I  was  all  she  had.  That's  why 
I  buried  her  here.  Kensal  Green.  She'll  rest  easy 
there.  [He  walks  about  distractedly.  Suddenly  he  stops 
and  with  his  hands  extended  upwards  as  if  in  prayer, 
he  cries.]  Out  of  my  depths  I  cry  to  Thee.  I  call  on 
3*ou  to  curse  them.  Curse  the  Prussian  brutes,  made  in 
Your  likeness,  but  with  hearts  as  the  lowest  of  beasts. 
Curse  them.  May  their  hopes  wither.  May  everything 
they  set  their  hearts  on  rot.  Send  them  pestilence,  dis- 
ease and  every  foul  torture  they  have  visited  on  Your 
people.  Send  the  Angel  of  Death  to  rid  the  earth  of 
them  and  their  spawn.  May  their  souls  burn  in  hell  for 
all  eternity.  [Quickly  to  Dartrey.]  And  if  there  is  a 
God      they      will.       But      is      there      a      good      God 

[66] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

that  such  things  can  be  and  yet  no  sign  from  Him? 
Listen.  I  didn't  believe  in  war.  I  reasoned 
against  it.  I  shouted  for  Peace,  and  thousands  of  cra- 
vens like  me.  I  thought  God  was  using  this  universal 
slaughter  for  a  purpose.  When  His  end  was  accom- 
plished He  would  cry  to  the  warring  peoples,  "Stop !" 
It  was  His  will,  I  thought,  that  out  of  much  evil  might 
come  permanent  good.  That  was  my  faith.  It  has  gone. 
How  can  there  be  a  good  God  to  look  down  on  His 
people  tortured  and  maimed  and  butchered?  The 
women,  whose  lives  were  devoted  to  Him,  defiled.  His 
temples  looted,  filled  with  the  filth  of  the  soldiery,  and 
then  destroyed.  And  yet  no  sign.  Oh,  no.  My  faith 
is  gone.  Now  I  want  to  murder  and  torture  and  mas- 
sacre the  foul  brutes.  .  .  .  I'm  going  out,  Dartrey.  In 
any  way.  Just  a  private.  I'll  dig,  carry  my  load,  eat 
their  rations.  Vermin !  Mud.  Ache  in  the  cold  and 
scorch  in  the  heat.  I  will  welcome  it.  Anything  to 
stop  the  gnawing  here,  and  the  throbbing  here.  [Beat- 
ing at  his  head  and  heart.]  Anything  to  find  vent  for 
my  hatred.  [Moving  restlessly  about.]  I'm  going 
through  Ireland  first.  Every  town  and  village.  It's 
our  work  now.  It's  Irishmen's  work.  All  the  Catholics 
will  be  in  now.  No  more  conscientious-objecting!  They 
can't.  It's  a  war  on  women  and  little  children.  All 
right.  No  Irish-Catholic  will  rest  easy;  eat,  sleep  and 
go  Ins  day's  round  after  this.  The  call  has  gone  out. 
America,  too.  She'll  come  in.  You  watch.  She  can't 
stay  out.  She's  founded  on  Liberty.  She'll  fight  for  it. 
You  see.     It's  clean  against  unclean.     Red  blood  against 

[67] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

black  filth.  Carrion.  Beasts.  Swine.  [Drops  into  a 
chair  mumbling  incoherently.  Takes  a  long  breath; 
looks  at  Dartrey.]     I'm  selling  out  everything  at  home. 

DARTREY 

Why? 

GILRUTH 

I'm  not  going  back.  I'm  bringing  everything  over 
here.  England,  France,  Russia,  Belgium,  Serbia — they 
can  have  it.  All  of  it.  They've  suffered.  Only  now 
do  I  know  how  much.  Only  now.  [Fiercely.]  I  want 
to  tear  them — tear  them  as  they've  torn  me.  As  they 
mangled  her.  [Grits  his  teeth  and  claws  with  his  fin- 
gers.] Tear  them — that's  what  I  want  to  do.  May  I 
live  to  do  it.  May  the  war  never  end  until  every  dirty 
Prussian  is  rotting  in  his  grave.  Then  a  quick  end  for 
me,  too.  I've  nothing  now.  Nothing.  [Gets  up  again 
wearily  and  dejectedly;  all  the  blazing  passion  burnt 
out  momentarily.]  This  was  to  have  been  my  wedding- 
day;  our  wedding  day.  Now  she's  lying  there,  done  to 
death  by  Huns.  A  few  days  ago  all  youth  and  fresh- 
ness and  courage  and  love.  Lying  disfigured  in  her  little 
coffin.  I  know  what  you  meant  now  by  wanting  to  go 
back  for  the  third  time.  I  couldn't  understand  it  the 
other  day.  It  seemed  that  everyone  should  hate  war. 
But  you've  seen  them.  You  know  them.  And  you  want 
to  destroy  them.  That's  it.  Destroy.  .  .  .  The  call  is 
all  over  the  world  by  now.  Civilization  will  be  in  arms. 
.  .  .  To  hell  with  your  Pacifists.     It's  another  name  for 

[68] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAITH 

cowards.  They'd  lose  those  nearest  them;  the  honour 
of  their  women;  the  liberty  of  their  people — and  never 
strike  a  blow.  To  hell  with  them.  It's  where  they 
should  be.  I  was  one  of  them.  No  more.  Wherever  I 
meet  them  I'll  spit  in  their  faces.  They  disgrace  the 
women  they  were  born  of;  the  country  they  claim.  .  .  . 
To  hell  with  them. 

DARTREY 

[Tries  to  soothe  him.]  You  must  try  and  get  some 
grip  on  yourself. 

GILRUTH 

[His  fingers  ceaselessly  locking  and  unlocking.] 
I'll  be  all  right.  It's  a  relief  to  talk  to  you.  [Sees  the 
preparations  for  Dartrey's  departure.]     Are  you  off? 


Yes.     To-night. 


UARTREY 


GILRUTH 


I  envy  you  now.  I  wish  I  were  going.  But  I  will 
soon.  Ireland  first.  I  must  have  my  say  there.  What 
will  the  "Sinn  Feiners"  say  to  the  Lusitania  murder?  I 
want  to  meet  some  of  them.  What  are  our  wrongs  of 
generations  to  this  horror?  All  humanity  is  at  stake 
here.  I'll  talk  to  them.  ...  I  must.  They'll  have  to 
do  something  now  or  go  down  branded  through  the  gen- 
erations as  Pro-German.  Can  a  man  have  a  worse  epi- 
taph? No  decent  Irishman  will  bear  that;  every  loyal 
Irishman  must  loathe  them.   .  .   .   I'll  talk  to  them — soul 

[69] 


GOD     OF     MY     FAT  Til 

to  soul.  .  .  .  Sorry,  Dartrey.  You  have  your  own  sor- 
row. .  .  .  Good  of  you  to  put  up  with  me.  Now  I'll 
go.  .  .  .  [Goes  to  door,  stops,  takes  out  wallet.]  Just 
one  thing.  If  it  won't  bother  you.  [Tapping  some  pa- 
pers.] I've  mentioned  you  here.  If  I  don't  come  througli 
— see  to  a  few  things  for  me.  Will  you?  They're  not 
much.     Will  you? 

DARTREY 

Of  course   I   will. 

GILRUTH 

[Si?nply.]  Thank  you.  You've  always  been  decent 
to  me.  .  .  .  Dartrey.  To-day !  You  would  have  been 
my  best  man — and  she's 

DARTREY 

[Shaking  him  by  the  shoulders.]     Come,  pull  up. 

GILRUTH 

I  will.  I'll  be  all  right.  In  a  little  while  I'll  be  along 
out  there.  I  hope  I  serve  under  you.  [Grips  his  hand.] 
Good-bye. 

DARTREY 

Keep  in  touch  with  me. 

GILRUTH 

All  right.  [Passes  out,  opens  and  closes  the  outer 
door  behind  him  and  disappears  in  the  street.  Dartrey 
resumes  his  preparations.] 

[70] 


Written  February,  1919 


GOD'S  OUTCAST 


Portraying  the   meeting  of  a  man  and   a  woman   in 
the  waiting  room  of  an  isolated  railway-station. 


[73] 


GOD'S  OUTCAST 

The  waiting-room  is  old,  shabby  and  neglected.  It 
shelters  but  few  and  has  little  of  greeting. 

Rough  benches  are  placed  agaiyist  its  crude  walls  on 
which  are  the  remnants  of  faded  time-tables,  govern- 
ment announcements  and  rewards  offered  by  the 
authorities  for  the  detection  of  time-old  criminals. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  there  is  a  stove  with  a  pipe 
running  up  through  the  roof.  Beside  it  are  two  rough 
wooden  chairs.  A  dim,  banked-in  fire  is  burning 
sullenly. 

Two  faint  gas-jets  on  each  side  of  the  door  opening  on 
to  the  platform  feebly  light  a  portion  of  the  room. 

It  is  the  most  silent  time  of  night. 

There  is  only  the  gentlest  sound  of  rain  pattering  on 
dead  leaves  heard  through  a  broken  window. 

A  woman,  wrapped  closely  in  furs,  comes  in  slowly 
through  the  door  and,  without  looking  around,  goes  to 
the  stove  and  limply  and  noiselessly  draws  up  a  chair. 
She  sinks  slowly  into  it,  sits  back  and  closes  her  eyes 
in  faintness  or  languor. 

Time  passes  with  no  sound  but  her  fitful  breathing.  The 
movements  of  her  body  suggest  that  she  is  crying.  A 
slight  moan  comes  from  her  lips.  It  is  low,  feeble, 
despairing. 

[75] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

Out  of  the  darkness  a  man  rises  from  a  corner  and 
listens.  He  is  shrouded  in  a  heavy  ulster,  the  collar 
turned  up  concealing  the  lower  part  of  his  face. 

As  the  moans  continue  he  walks  slowly  over  to  the 
woman  and  stands,  borved,  peering  down  at  her.  He 
puts  his  hand  out  hesitatingly  and  timidly  touches 
her. 

She  does  not  start;  just  looks  up  at  him  dully  with 
neither  fear  nor  interest. 

THE    MAN 

Don't  do  that.  [She  shivers  and  moves  slightly  so 
that  her  face  is  turned  from  him.] 

Deep  in  trouble,  aren't  ye?      [She  does  not  speak.] 

So  am  I.      [Still  she  is  silent.] 

Yet  there  is  nothing  can  have  made  you  suffer  as  I 

am  suffering  now.    Is  there  any  comfort  in  that? 

[Her  shoulders  contract  as  if  through  cold;  he  opens  the 

door  of  the  stove;  a  faint   flicker  of  flame  lights  up 

her  face.     She  is  quite  young;  white  and  tear-stained. 

As   the   man  stoops  down   to   mend   the  fire   with  an 

implement  he  is  seen  to  be  rugged,  powerful  and  past 

middle-age.     His  voice  is  that  of  an  educated  man: 

his    manner,    although    distraught,    is    courteous    and 

gentle.] 

The  wind  cuts  tonight.  And  the  rain !  I  heard 
nothing  until  you  opened  the  door.  You  didn't  drive 
up?     [She  shakes  her  head.] 

Walked?     [She  nods.] 

Across  the  moor?      [Again  she  signs  'yes.'] 

[76] 


GOD'S    OUTCAST 

So  did  I.     [Shivers.] 

It's    ankle-deep    in    places.       [Looks    at    her    boots; 
kneels,  takes  out  his  handkerchief  and  wipes  them.] 

THE   WOMAN 

[Withdrawing  them.]     Oh,  don't. 

THE    MAN 

All  right.     [Rises ;  waits;  she  does  not  speak.] 
Lost  your  way?      [She  shakes  her  head.] 
You  have  not  come  for  a  train?     [She  nods.] 
You'll  have   a   long  wait.      [She   turns   away   impa- 
tiently.] 

I'll  go  out  on  the  platform  if  you'd  rather  I  did. 
[She  shakes  her  head  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  her.  He  continues  to  look  down  at 
her,  yearningly,  discouragedly.  Convinced  finally  he 
is  not  wanted  he  softly  creeps  back  to  the  corner  and 
huddles  in  the  dark,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands.] 
[The  woman  looks  up  and  listens:  misses  him  from  be- 
side her;  looks  around  slowly,  glimpsing  into  the  dark 
corners.  The  man  is  breathing  heavily  inward;  his 
body  quivers  with  suppressed  sobs.  She  rises,  goes 
over  to  him  and  stands  looking  down  at  him.  Follow- 
ing a  compassionate  impulse,  she  touches  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  drops  his  hands  quickly  and  springs 
up.] 

THE   WOMAN 

Why  do  you  cry} 

[77] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

THE    MAN 

To  get  relief.     Just  as  you  did.     As  you  are  doing. 

THE   WOMAN 

Does  it  relieve  you? 

THE    MAN 

No.     Does  it  you? 

THE   WOMAN 

Yes. 

THE    MAN 

There  are  millions  of  women  crying  at  this  moment. 

Because   they've  lost   someone. Someone   dear 

to  them. Have  you  ? 

THE   WOMAN 

Yes. 

THE    MAN 

The  tears  that  are  being  shed  —  by  women. It 

eases    their    grief. As    children. Children    and 

women    cry    so    easily. And    forget    so    soon. 

When  men  weep  their  sorrow  hardens. Tears  hurt 

them. They  scald. They  are  unbearable. 

When  they  cry  they  have  reached  the  end. 1  have. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Gently  takes  him  by  the  sleeve  and  leads  him  to  the 
fire.     She  moves  a  chair  in  front  of  it  and  motions 

[78] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

him  to  sit.     She  draws  up  the  other  chair  and  sinks 
into  it.] 
Tell  me. 

THE    MAN 

May  I? 

THE   WOMAN 

Do.     You've  lost  some  one? 

THE    MAN 

Yes. 

THE   WOMAN 

Your  wife? 

THE    MAN 

Years  ago.     That's  healed. 

THE  WOMAN 

Your   son  ? 

THE    MAN 

{Vehemently.}  My  son,  brother,  play-fellow,  confi- 
dante —  all  in  one. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Nodding  under  standingly.}      I  know. 

THE    MAN 

[Distractedly.]     All  in  one. Gone.     Lost.     Rot- 
ting.    Oh-h-h ! 
[Swaying  as  he   moans.      After    a    while     he    goes    on 

fiercely.] 

What  a  huddling,  shuffling,  choking  thing  life  is.  The 
more  we  love,  the  more  eagerly  we  bruise  and  maim  and 
gibe  and  scoff  at  and  tease  and  tear  the  one  we  love. 

[79] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

■  We     do. Propinquity     does     that. We're 

ashamed  to  be  affectionate  all  the  time. The  sub- 
conscious brute  in  us. The  instinct  that  drives  us 

to  hurt  those  we  would  give  the  last  breath  in  our  bodies 

to  save  from  hurt. That's  our  heritage. All  the 

sins  of  all  the  ages  have  left  their  lees  in  our  brains. 

All  the  foulness  of  centuries  is  sown  in  the  infant 

and   it  ripens   and  throws   out   its   rancid   growth. 

From  them  come  the  murderers  and  brutes  and  ruffians 

who   butcher. And   yet   they   prate    of    Free-Will ! 

Of  carving  our  destinies ! Oh,  we  can  carve  them. 

But  when  we  reach  a  certain  point  the  'throw- 
back' in  us  presses  on  the  thumb  of  fate  and  it  turns 
downwards  and  drives  us  its  way.  We  are  driven  from 
within. And  we  hurt — hurt — always  hurt. 

THE   WOMAN 

Sometimes   the   thumb   of   fate   points    upwards    and 
we  love. 

THE    MAN 

The  stronger  we  love  the  more  we  bruise. 

THE   WOMAN 

Did  you? 

THE    MAN 

God  forgive  me.     May  the  good  God  forgive  me.    As 

I  look  back  I  see  I  did.     Yes,  I  see  it. I'd  put  my 

hands  under  his  feet  to  walk  on  yet  I'd  refuse  him  some 

little   wish   that  meant  present  happiness   to  him. 

Death  makes  all  things  clear,  even  to  the  living. I 

[80] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

see  it. Yes,  I  see  it. I  tended  him  as  a  baby 

when  his  mother  died. I   sat  night  and  day   with 

him  when  he  was  ill. Companioned  him  as  he  grew 

year  by  year. And  all  the  while  I  was  a  tyrant. 

1  wanted  him  solely  to  myself.     Jealous  of  all  who 

came  near  him. Next  to  his  God  his  country.     Be- 
fore all  else  —  save  his  God  —  his  country. Better 

a  clod  of  earth  on  your  native  land  than  a  prince  in  any 

other. Be  the  humblest  outcast  in  your  own  country 

rather   than   possess  millions   and   renounce  your  birth- 
right.   Always    that. Loyalty.      Service.      Live 

your  life  in  and  go  to  death  for  —  your  country. 

And  he  listened  eagerly. He  agreed  readily. 

Little  did  I  know  I  was  shaping  the  weapon  that  would 

cut  off  our  lives. They're  cut  off. Ended. 

The  weapon  has  cut  surely. Why  should  you  have 

to  listen  to  this.     [Rising.] 

THE   WOMAN 

Go  on. [Waits.']     I  want  you  to  go  on. 

THE    MAN 

[Beats  his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand;  sits.] 
When  he  went  to  school  I  relearnt  the  lessons  of  my 
youth  so  that  I  might  share  in  his  little  mind.     Every 

step   of  his   university-life   I    kept  pace   with. He 

followed  all  my  well-beaten  roads. Everything  he 

enjoyed  I  made  myself  like. I  adapted  my  tastes, 

my   habits,   my   life   to   his. 1   was   wrong.      Lives 

must  develop  alone  —  apart. When  they  grow  to- 

[81] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

gether  you  reap  the  whirlwind. Cut  off  one  and  the 

survivor   has    nothing   left. Unfair   to   both. I 

was    unfair. To    him. To    myself. I    am 

punished. Affection   made   me   a   despot,    a     slave; 

father,  brother,  twin  —  in  thought,  in  work,  in  play  — 
in  death  —  [His  head  droops  as  his  hands  clench 
tightly.]     In  death. 

THE   WOMAN 

How  did  he  die? 

THE    MAX 

Following  my  teaching. For  his  country ! 

THE   WOMAN 

[Slavering    and    contracting.]       I    see. Oh    yes. 

I  see. 

THE    MAN 

The  body  I  had  urged  him  to  strengthen;  the  brain 
I  had  helped  him  to  discipline;  the  loyalty  I  had  in- 
stilled into  him  since  he  could  first  understand  —  I 
sent    it    all  —  to  —  what?       To    end    in  —  just    three 

words: — "Killed  in  Action!" And  I  am  left. I 

wanted  them  to  take  me.     Look  at  me. [Springs 

up,  straightening  his  powerful  figure.]  Fm  strong  as 
he  ever  was.  I  don't  tire.  I've  never  known  fatigue. 
I  could  lead  men.     I  could  serve  too.     My  organs  are 

sound.     My  limbs  whole.     My  brain  keen. But  no. 

I've  lived  too  long.     By  a  few  years.     Just  a  few  years. 

So  I  was  not  wanted. And  I,  the  tyrant,  followed 

as  a  slave  the  bov  who  had  glorious  youth  to  offer  in 

[82] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

the  sublime  adventure.  Followed  as  a  dog  —  at  — 
heel.  From  camp  to  camp,  I  watched  him  straighten 
and  bronze  and  move  as  a  machine.  I  saw  the  first 
gleam  in  his  eye  of  the  desire  to  kill.  Heard  the  new 
note  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  the  abrupt  word  of  com- 
mand.   At  the  dock  as  he  went  aboard  the  troopship 

he  said,  voice  clear  and  eye-shining: — "Father,  at  last 

I   can  serve!"     I   had  not  taught  him  in  vain. I 

had  sent  him  to  serve  and  to  die. 1,  useless,  live. 

Unfair,  eh?  Unjust,  isn't  it?  But  isn't  it  unjust?  My 
few   years   could   mean   nothing.      He   was   just   at  the 

bud. Letters    from   the   ship.      From   huts.      From 

the  trenches.  Accounts  of  attack.  Sometimes  retreat. 
Now  buoyant.     Now  uncertain.     But  always  the  glory: 

"I   serve !" Now   he   stands   clean   and   bright   and 

holy  before  his  God.     "Present!"  he  cried,  when  his 

name  was  called. Aye !     "I   served  and  died,  my 

God,   for  You   and  my  country." And    he    sleeps 

lightly  in  a  shallow  grave  under  a  white  cross  in  the 

land  he  went  to  save. "He  served  and  died."     The 

epitaph  of  millions. 

THE   WOMAN 

[In  a  strained,  hoarse  voice.]   When  was  he  killed? 

THE    MAN 

Weeks  back.    The  news  came  this  morning. Only 

this   morning. Yet   I    seemed   to  know   it. For 

days. Nights. Long interminable  nights. 

I  felt  he  was  trying  to  speak  to  me. And  I 

strained  to  listen. At  times  I'd  call  out  to  him. 

[83] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

I  wonder  if  he  heard  ? He  must  have  heard ! 

And  all  those  days  he  was  lying  in  his  narrow  resting- 
place, and    I    only   knew   today. [Wearily.] 

I  couldn't  stay  there. No. Not  where  he  was 

born.     Where  he  grew;  and  ripened.     Everything  was 

of   him. The   whinny   of   a   pony   seemed   to   wail: 

"Master's  gone." The  shrinking,  red-eyed  servants 

mute  and  piteous.     Their  lips  seemed  to  phrase,  "He's 

gone  !" To-night,  —  just  before  I  came  away  —  his 

dog  thrust  a  hot  snout  into  my  palm  and  whined.  His 
eyes  were  frightened,  entreating.     He  seemed  to  know. 

So  I  pitied  him.  And  killed  him.  He'd 

have  died  of  grief.     Better  a  bullet. He's  at  peace. 

Dropped  without  a  cry. He's  lying  there  as 

if  asleep  —  paws  out  —  head  on  them.     At  peace  —  so 

must   I   be. My  work's  done. I   want  to  rest. 

[Sighs  tiredly.] 

THE   WOMAN 

[Her  eyes  distended.]     Is  that  why  you  came  here? 

THE    MAN 

[Nods.]     My  last  journey.     I  never  thought  to  see  a 

living  being  again. Then  you  came  in.     You  cried. 

It  seemed  no  one  had  the  right  to  cry  before  a  grief 
like  mine.  So  I  spoke  to  you.  I  told  you  nothing  could 
make  you  suffer  as  I  was  suffering.     Wasn't  I  right? 

THE     WOMAN 

[Vehemently.]     No.     Indeed — No. 

[84] 


GOD'S     OUT  CAS  I 

THE    MAN 

[Incredulously.]  You  think  your  sorrow  greater 
than  mine? 

THE   WOMAN 

Indeed  it  is. 

THE    MAN 

[Impatiently.]      Ah! 

THE   WOMAN 

You  have  had  years  witli  your  boy.  You  watched 
him  grow  from  a  baby  to  youth  —  to  manhood.  Always 
beside  him.  You  shared  all  those  years  with  him  — 
happy.  You  have  them  to  look  back  on.  You  have  the 
remembrance  of  a  full  life. 

THE    MAN 

Remembrance !  It  is  life  to  woman.  It  makes  it 
full.     It  is  agony  to  me.     It  leaves  mine  empty. 

THE   WOMAN 

There  are  millions  of  empty  lives  that  will  fill  again. 

THE    MAN 

Mine  won't.     It's  ended  now. 

THE   WOMAN 

How? 

THE    MAN 

It's  finished. Done.     My  work's  over.     I'm  going 

to  find  peace. 

[85] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

THE   WOMAN 

[Eagerly;  her  eyes  shining.]  I'm  going  to  find 
peace,  too. 

THE    MAN 

You'll  find  it  in  life.  You're  young.  On  the  border. 
The  years  stretch  before  you.     They're  behind  me. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Breathlessly.]  They're  behind  me  too.  My  life  is 
buried,  too,  under  a  little  white  cross. 

THE    MAN 

[Glowing.]     In  France? 

THE   WOMAN 

In  Palestine.  My  love  is  buried  in  the  shadow  of 
Nazareth.     He,  too,  died  to  save  mankind. 

THE    MAN 

Your  husband? 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes  —  my  husband.  For  a  month.  Just  a  month. 
[He  shivers.]  He  was  my  playmate,  my  confidante,  my 
Lord,  my  all.  There  has  never  been  a  day  since  girl- 
hood that  he  has  not  been  with  me  or  in  my  thoughts. 
There  has  not  been  an  act  of  mine  he  did  not  influence. 
I  have  lived  only  for  him  —  for  the  time  we  could  be 

together  always. He  could  not  have  lived  without 

me.     I  can't  without  him. The  news  came  to  me 

today. So  /  —  came  —  here. 

[86] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 


THE    MAN 


[Thinks:  then  looks  at  her.     In  horror.]     What  train 
did  you  come  to  meet  ? 


THE   WOMAN 

The  midnight-express. 

THE    MAN 

[Breathlessly.]      It   doesn't   stop. [In   a  whis- 
per.]     It  —  does  —  not  —  stop! 

THE   WOMAN 

I  know. 

THE    MAN 

[Looking  piercingly  into  her  eyes.]      Not  —  that! 

THE   WOMAN 

[Unflinching.]     Yes — that. 

THE    MAN 

It  would  be  horrible. 

THE   WOMAN 

Why? 

THE    MAN 

For  me?    What  matters.     I'm  old.     But  you  — 

THE   WOMAN 

My  life  is  buried  with  my  love  in  the  Holy  Land. 

[87] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

THE    MAN 

But  can't  you  see  —  ? 

THE  WOMAN 

I  join  him  tonight.     Wherever  he  is  I  am  going  to 
him. 

THE    MAN 

[Roughly.]     I  won't  let  you. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Dully.]      Very   well.      Stop   me  —  here.      I'll   do   it 
somewhere  else. 

THE    MAN 

[Moaning  and  muttering.]      The  only  thing.     She's 
right.     The  only  thing. 

THE   WOMAN 

It's  why  you're  here. 

THE    MAN 

Yes. 

THE   WOMAN 

An  accident  —  they'll  say? 

THE    MAN 

[Nods.]     It  was  in  my  mind,  too. 

THE   WOMAN 

The  thumb  of  fate  is  pointing  down,  fellow  traveller. 

[88] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

[Faintly  in  the  distance  can  be  heard  the  screech  of  the 
train.    She  leans  against  the  door,  momentarily  weak.] 

THE    MAN 

[Hoarsely,  beside  her.]      Don't  do  it. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Faintly.]  I  must.  [Rallying.]  I'm  right  now. 
Give  me  your  hand,  fellow  traveller.  [Catches  his 
hand.     The  whistle  sounds  nearer.] 


THE    MAN 


Arc  you  afraid? 


THE   WOMAN 

[Firmly.]     No.     It  will  be  just  a  leap  in  the  dark. 

THE    MAN 

[Nods.]     A  leap  in  the  dark  —  then  peace. 

THE   WOMAN 

[Kneeling,  hands  clasped,  looking  upward.]  Oh  Thou 
who  lookest  down  on  us  all,  who  knows  our  hearts  curse 
the  wretches  who  brought  this  waste  of  grief  on  mankind. 
May  their  power  wither  from  this  earth.  May  they  be 
accursed  even  to  the  third  generation.  May  their  rulers 
perish  by  the  hand  of  Justice.  May  their  followers 
groan  under  the  yoke  they  placed  on  Your  people.  May 
their  hearts  ache  with  misery  until  their  people  is  purged 
through  expiation  of  their  foul  crimes.  Curse  them,  oh 
my  Lord.     Curse  them.     [Rises.] 

[89] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 


THE    MAN 


[Hoarsely.]     Amen. 
[The   whistle  sounds   nearer.] 

THE    MAN 

Ready  ? 

THE   WOMAN 

Yes.  [The  Man  puts  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
door;  the  Woman  looks  upwards  supplicatingly.]  May 
God  have  mercy  on  us.  And  He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 
Won't  he? 

THE    MAN 

Of  course  He  will.      [Laughs  harshly.]      There  are 

fools   who   say  the   suicide  is  damned. Put  apart. 

God's   outcast. 

THE    WOMAN 

[Her  teeth  chatter  and  her  body  shivers  with  fear  of  the 
Unknown.  With  a  scream;  shaking  and  chattering.] 
God's  Outcast !  Suppose  it's  true  ?  Oh,  my  God ! 
Suppose  it's  true!  If  /  were  put  apart!  Never  to  see 
him  !  Never  to  see  my  beloved  for  all  eternity  !  [Goes 
on  muttering  and  moaning  incoherently.] 

THE    MAN 

[Roughly.]     Stop  that.    We've  suffered  here.     Here! 
Haven't  we? 

[90] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

THE   WOMAN 

[Hysterically.]  I  couldn't  bear  that.  I  couldn't  bear 
it!  Never  to  see  him.  Never  to  be  near  him.  [Looking 
upward,  crying  out  frantically.]  Help  me  to  live,  that 
I  may  join  him.  Help  me  to  live  —  to  live —  [The 
scream  of  the  train  is  heard  quite  near.  The  Man  puts 
his  hand  violently  on  the  handle  of  the  door.  Grips 
him.]  Don't  do  it.  [Breathlessly.]  You'll  be  apart. 
Apart  —  for  all  eternity!  Don't!  [Holds  him.] 
The   train  dashes   through;  the  whistle  screaming;  the 

sparks  from  the  engine  and  the  lamps  in  carriages 

flashing  past   the   window;   the   room   trembling   and 

shaking  from  the  vibration. 
Faintly    in    the    distance   can    be    heard   the    whistle  — 

Then  silence. 
The  Woman  is  leaning  against  the  door. 
The  Man  is  peering  out  into  the  darkness  through  the 

broken   window.      After  a  while  he   turns  away   and 

looks  down  at  her. 

the  man 

It  wasn't  because  we  were  afraid. Was  it? 

THE   WOMAN 

No. We  were  afraid  to  live. 

That's  it. It  takes  courage  to  live. For  us. 

Yes.     That's  it.     We  were  afraid  to  live. 

We  mustn't  be. [Shivers.]     I  won't  be. 

THE    MAN 

[Thinking.]      It  would  be  horrible  to  be  apart. 

[91] 


GOD'S     OUTCAST 

THE  WOMAN 

[Awed.']      Horrible! For  all  eternity. 

THE    MAN 

[With   new   resolve.]      All    right. It    will     need 

courage. All  right.      [Suddenly.]      I  can't  go  back 

there. 

THE   WOMAN 

Nor  I.      [Thinking.]      Xot  there. 

THE    MAN 

The  next  train  .stops. 

THE   WOMAN 

I'll  wait  for  it. 
She  wearily  draws  up  a  chair  and  sits  staring  into  the 

fire. 
The  Man  creeps  noiselessly  back  to  the  corner  and  sits 

huddled  in  the  shadows. 
After  a  while  the  Curtain  shuts  them  out  of  sight. 


[92] 


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